The Conqueror's Dilemma (10 page)

Why
had Mr Westerham treated her so rudely? As if she were beneath contempt. That
she was beneath his notice none could doubt. Or had a matter of etiquette of
which she had no knowledge demanded it?

But
what rule of etiquette could direct him to look down his nose as he might at a
caterpillar discovered in an apple? She must be a low being indeed. Yet if she
was, what business had he addressing her at all, or indulging in clandestine
discussions? For there could be no gainsaying he had done so. Neither meeting
had been of her making. Nor the last, if it came to that. Now she thought about
it rationally, the whole business had been his fault from start to finish.
Which gave him no right to subject her to a wounding look.

The
moment of righteous indignation could not long endure in face of the melancholy
suspicion that Mr Westerham, taken by surprise, had reacted to her presence in
a manner fitted to his situation in the hallowed world of which he was
apparently king. Tiffany had only half a claim to his world. And it was galling
to think that until she met the Conqueror she had been content to be excluded.

A
horrid moment of realisation caused her to catch her breath. Was she become
ambitious? And all on account of a pair of smiling brown eyes and a false aura
of kindness. It must be false. Else he could not have been so cruel.

‘A
penny for them, Miss Felton.’

Tiffany
started, and blinked into the leering painted features of Sir Lambert
Chicheley. The dratted man had crept up on her while her attention was
distracted.

‘Your
thoughts, Miss Felton. You were far away. I wonder where?’

She
schooled her countenance to a smile as false as Mr Westerham’s had been. ‘My
thoughts are my own, Sir Lambert. Besides, they are not worth a penny.’
Dismayed to hear the echo of distress in her own voice, Tiffany rose from her
chair. ‘I must find Lady Drumbeg.’

Sir
Lambert offered his arm. ‘Allow me to escort you.’

Before
she could refuse, he had taken her hand and tucked it securely into the crook
of his elbow and begun to move away. Perforce, Tiffany moved with him. She saw
her chaperon not half a room away, but to her chagrin, Sir Lambert steered her
in a different direction altogether. She tried to pull back, but his hold
tightened and he led her inexorably into an alcove, where he released her and
stood with his back to the room, effectively barring her way.

‘You
shan’t escape me so easily, Miss Felton.’

A
particularly offensive smile creased his mouth. It was a wet mouth, from which
slivers of foam were apt to spray as he talked. White paint and rouge adorned
his thin features, concealing but little of the creases that spoke his age. He
wore a patch high on one cheekbone, and a white wig curled in pigeon’s wings
over his ears. It was like addressing a portrait of one’s ancestors.

‘Pray
release me from here at once, Sir Lambert,’ Tiffany commanded, ‘or I shall
complain of you to Lady Drumbeg.’

His
smile widened. ‘Do so, do so, dear Miss Felton. I think you will find her
ladyship agreeably disposed towards me. She knows my intentions, I believe.’

Yes,
so did Tiffany. It had not taken him more than two meetings to proffer his
proposals. At the time, Lady Drumbeg had advised Tiffany to refuse him, for
he’d had three wives already. She had responded in no uncertain terms that she
had no other intention, throwing in the clincher that she knew her uncle would
not countenance her marriage to a man near twenty years older than himself.

‘Sir,
I have already told you I will not marry you.’

He was
not in the least discomposed. ‘But you see I am a persistent fellow. Always have
been, when I know what I want.’

An
unpleasant leer accompanied these words, and Tiffany was made acutely
uncomfortable as his eyes ran down her length, dwelling unnecessarily upon the
pleated bodice and the area below her waist where a pink under-petticoat peeped
through the open muslin robe.

Thanks
to Uncle Matt’s refusal to keep her ignorant of the wiles and ambitions of
lecherous men, Tiffany was under no illusions as to his meaning. She was
thankful they were in a roomful of people, for she was by no means certain of
being able to perform one of the tricks her uncle had taught her should Sir
Lambert step over the line. It was one thing to learn them, quite another to be
obliged to put them into operation.

Why
Lady Drumbeg had not intervened Tiffany did not know. Perhaps she had not seen
it? Well, she must fend for herself then. And with words. To her own surprise,
they came easily, drawn perhaps from the well of depression in which she
lingered.

‘You
may want, Sir Lambert, but I don’t. If you will not let me pass—and
immediately—I will strike you full in your painted face before everyone.’

 Doubt
was in his eyes, but he gave vent to a hesitant little laugh. ‘A country-bred
innocent like you?’

‘I may
be innocent, but I have been bred to take care of myself, I warn you.’

He
hesitated, holding his ground. And then leered again. ‘Come, come, Miss Felton,
I am not ignorant of your concerns in the matter of etiquette.’

A
flame of anger swept through her. ‘Indeed?’

‘Lady
Drumbeg has been most informative,’ he pursued slyly. ‘You would not wish to
make such a figure of yourself.’

Tiffany
stared him out. ‘Try me.’

There
was a silence. Her chaperon’s perfidy was the final straw. Tiffany knew she
would carry out her threat, regardless of the consequences.

Sir
Lambert must have seen it in her face, for he suddenly stepped back, and bowed
her out of the alcove with exaggerated courtesy. Tiffany swept past him, wholly
ignoring the little whispers and stares emanating from those groups in the
immediate vicinity, and made directly for where Lady Drumbeg was standing, in
close conversation with Mrs Gosbeck.

‘I
have the headache, ma’am,’ Tiffany stated baldly, ‘and wish to go home without
delay.’

Tiffany
pushed away her plate. She had barely touched the eggs, and the congealing
yolks did nothing to whet her flagging appetite. Instead she toyed with a slice
of buttered bread and sipped gratefully at the coffee, poured from a refreshed
pot brought in by the parlour maid. There was no butler in this household, and
the manifold domestic duties fell upon three females and a footman, inclusive
of the cook. Another source of complaint for the ever-fertile Lady Drumbeg.

But
her chaperon’s attention was this morning centred upon Tiffany’s lack of
enthusiasm for Sir Lambert Chicheley.

‘I
can’t think what you hope for, foolish girl. I’ve done all I can to bring you
forward, but if the Conqueror himself ain’t seen nothing in you, where’s the
point in continuing? You may as well settle for Sir Lambert and be done.’

It was
now clear to Tiffany why Lady Drumbeg had refrained from interfering last
night. Indeed, she had allowed the would-be suitor to remain possessively by
while she continued her conversation. Tiffany had Mrs Gosbeck to thank for her
deliverance.

‘Eva,
have you forgotten?’ she had interrupted, after fidgeting a while in silence.
‘Poor Miss Felton has the headache. You do look peaky, dearie. I shall order
the carriage at once.’

Her
chaperon had not argued, although Tiffany had noted the tight-lipped annoyance.
But she had said nothing last night, possibly due to Tiffany’s pretences.
Unable to endure the inevitable scold, she had laid her head back against the
squabs and set her fingers to her temples, lying with closed eyes as if she
truly were suffering. Which she was, if depression of spirits might be included
in that category. She had shed a few foolish tears into her pillow—for what
reason even she could not fathom—and found herself disinclined for food this
morning. A state of affairs made worse when she realised Lady Drumbeg had
changed her mind about Sir Lambert.

‘I
don’t know what I hope for, ma’am,’ she responded tartly, ‘but it is not
marriage to a man with sixty years or more in his dish.’

Eva’s
mouth pursed and her look became cynical. ‘Then you’re a fool. Sir Lambert’s
advanced years are his greatest asset—to you, at any rate.’

‘How
can they be?’

‘If
you’d only use your head for once, Tiffany, you’d see it for yourself. He ain’t
much of a catch when it comes to social status for he’s no more got the entrée
to the
ton
than I have. Nor he ain’t got a fortune to lay at your feet.’

‘Which
is as much as to say he has nothing to offer me,’ argued Tiffany, unable to
help a touch of irritability from creeping into her voice.

‘That’s
where you’re a noddy,’ said Lady Drumbeg bluntly, smiling in a way that sent an
unaccountable shiver down Tiffany’s spine. ‘He’s got a house, ain’t he? And
means enough to keep you in reasonable comfort. More importantly, he’s produced
no offspring on three wives, which sets one to thinking the fault lies with
him. And as far as I know, he’s got no kith or kin who might be entitled to a
share of his inheritance.’

Disgust
rose in Tiffany as the meaning of this penetrated. ‘Are you suggesting I should
sell myself in the hopes of benefiting by Sir Lambert’s death?’

A
shifting shrug of her chaperon’s silk-clad shoulders in the undress sack
signalled discomfort, and her features became pinched. ‘No need to be so nice.
A female with little to recommend her must take advantage by whatever means she
may.’

With
difficulty, Tiffany controlled a burst of wrath. ‘I thank you, Eva, but I am
not yet reduced to such stratagems.’ And she had the Conqueror to thank for it.
Had he not looked so detestably at her, Lady Drumbeg would no doubt have kept
up her assault upon him. Tiffany did not know which fate she abhorred the more.

‘Well,
I’ve done my best,’ snapped the other. ‘It’s not my blame if you fail, as I
trust your uncle will be told.’

The
sound of a knock at the front door spared Tiffany from answering. Lady Drumbeg
threw down her napkin and rose from the table in a flurry of flowered brocade.

‘Who
can that be at this hour? It’s to be hoped that fool Burridge will have the
sense to deny me.’

She
was moving towards the door on the words, where she paused, peering into the
hall in a manner intended to prevent her from being seen while the footman
answered the knock.

Sipping
her coffee, Tiffany remained seated, wondering wistfully whether she might
persuade Uncle Matt to allow her to curtail her Season and come home. If her
chaperon was giving up on her, what need was there for her continued presence
in London? There was nothing to hold her here, no acquaintance she could
regret.

The
image that crept into her mind, of luxurious locks and smiling brown eyes, was
instantly banished. Mr Westerham had clearly no notion of calling acquaintance
with Miss Tiffany Felton. Which was exactly what she had supposed at the
outset. She had nothing to wish for from him, except a pointless desire that
she had never encountered him at all.

A
shriek from the doorway made her jump. Turning, she saw Lady Drumbeg, her
features transformed, waving a sheet of crested paper.

‘Would
you believe it, Tiffany? It’s from Mrs Membury.’

Tiffany’s
breath caught. ‘A letter?’

‘An
invitation.’ Eva hurried back to the table, and the sheet was thrust under
Tiffany’s nose. ‘It ain’t over, not by a long chalk. See—she says I’m to bring
you to her At Home tomorrow afternoon.’

Dazed,
Tiffany read the brief note, her eye running rapidly over the apology for the
lateness of the invitation and Mrs Membury’s hope that Lady Drumbeg would be
free to attend the event.

‘It’s
not likely this is Mr Westerham’s say-so,’ said her chaperon, snatching back
the letter and scrutinising it as if she sought to find within it evidence to
refute this. ‘Perhaps she’s sorry for you, Tiffany. Could be she thought the
Conqueror was a bit harsh, dismissing you like that. Although they say she’s
close as oysters with him. I wonder if she means to put you in his way again?’

What,
after merely presenting her? Hardly. Of course it could not be Mrs Membury had
simply liked her. A rush of warmth suffused Tiffany. Could that be so? She had
been seduced into thinking Mr Westerham liked her, only to be cruelly snubbed.

‘I
will not go,’ she uttered impulsively.

Lady
Drumbeg, who was perambulating in great excitement and rustling as she walked
in the old-fashioned garment, stopped dead, turning a face of amazement upon
Tiffany. ‘Have you run completely mad?’

Tiffany
swallowed down a feeling of discomfort. ‘I am persuaded Mrs Membury does not
truly wish for my acquaintance. How could she do so? I am not of her world, and
it is clear the Conqueror thinks so too.’

‘Good
God, girl, what does it matter? Besides, your uncle told me about your mother.
I checked her family in the Peerage, and I’m sure you needn’t feel lower than
Mrs Membury. One of the oldest families in the country are the Partingtons. I’d
not be surprised if they didn’t come over with the original Conqueror, which
the nobs set such store by. And if it’s birth we’re talking about, there’s
nothing much to be said for the Westerhams. He needn’t hold up his nose. How
such a nobody established himself in his position is a mystery, but that’s no
concern of ours. You, Tiffany, have every right to enter the highest
ton
,
and don’t let no one tell you different.’

Tiffany
arrived at Friday’s rendezvous with mixed feelings. Despite her chaperon’s
attempts to buoy up her confidence—interspersed with strictures upon correct
conduct confusing enough to destroy it utterly—she had every apprehension of
disaster. Ariadne Membury might find it in her to be kind, but the same could
not be said of Mr Westerham, should he prove to be present.